


Pollinated

by Unforth



Series: Prompt Fics: Supernatural [39]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Fuck Or Die, Knotting, M/M, Sex Pollen, Wing Grooming, Wing Kink, Wing Oil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 14:33:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18780217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unforth/pseuds/Unforth
Summary: Castiel is investigating the witches garden when he is smacked by the scent of his mate in distress.(This is not A/B/O, weird body stuff is something something angels.)





	Pollinated

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ratafia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratafia/gifts), [ThePornFairy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePornFairy/gifts).



> ratafia asked for wing kink and Aleeliah suggested fuck or die, and here we are.

Castiel gets the scent of  _ mate _ mere moments before he is bowled over by  _ pain _ ,  _ need _ ,  _ fear _ ,  _ help _ ,  _ help _ ,  _ help me, help me, Cas _ ! Gasping in shock from the wash of Dean's terror, he leaps to his feet and runs, dead out, into the wind.

There should be no dangers here. It's a garden, for fuck's sake. Yes, a witch's garden, but the witch in question is benign, and the nightshade and belladonna are only dangerous if Dean tried to eat the plants. As if Dean would ever voluntarily eat a salad. Taking a turn around the house so hard his feet skidded out from under him, Castiel spreads his wings to help him keep his balance and bolts through the greenery, leaves whipping against his arms, thorns tearing at his legs. Dean's smell permeates through he garden, criss-crossing the pathways between the neatly cultivated beds. Castiel can't tell which are most recent, nor can he see Dean, nor can he hear anything over the pounding of his heart and the air rushing in and out of his lungs.

But Dean  _ needs _ him.

Movement catches the corner of Castiel's eye and he spins on a toe, his wings pivoting and twisting to support his weight. Plants thrash, tumble, tear, and Castiel sprints toward the disruption, vaulting over shrubs, trenchcoat flaring behind him. The wilderness beyond the witch's plot seems dark and impenetrable even as Castiel draws closer, shadows cloaking the plants growing there, masking whatever creature has stalked amongst the tree trunks and attacked Dean.

_ Whatever has harmed him, whoever has harmed him, I will obliterate them. Not a trace shall remain to sully this place. _

Castiel clears the last obstacle, heaving lungfuls of air in his exertion, and freezes.

There is no creature.

There's only Dean, naked, writhing on the ground, stinking of dread, lips drawn back in a silent scream of agony, clothes shredded around him...and wings clawing out of his shoulders.

Dean's eyes open, glossy with pain and unshed tears. He twists and their gazes meet. "Stay...stay back," Dean gasps.

As if Castiel would ever obey such an injunction, with Dean in such distress.

Smell overwhelms Castiel's other senses as he drops to his knees beside Dean - the smell of leaf mold, the smell of Dean, the smell of blood, the smell of...pollen?

His nose tickles, and he sneezes as he reaches out for Dean.

_...wings... _

_...my mate has wings... _

Heat, incongruous, confusing, unexpected, seeps through Castiel's insides. He has a dozen questions, but no answers and no way to ask Dean. The floral scent grows, the wind carrying Dean's distress across the garden, carrying...something...out from the woods.

God, even in distress, Dean is gorgeous - irresistible - Castiel can't comprehend how they ever kept their hands off each other, can't comprehend how it took them years to finally tumble into bed together.

Castiel can't comprehend how he ever let's Dean  _ out _ of bed. Desire and need flow like angelic grace through his vessel.

Castiel's hand lands on Dean's bared side as Dean collapses to the ground, gasping, flopping like a fish dragged onto the beach. Dean's wings rise above him, wet with blood, trembling with residual pain, in desperate need of grooming.

_ I could do that for him... _

_ I want to do that for him... _

_...this isn't the moment but... _

_...I  _ need  _ to do that for him... _

Shakily, Castiel reaches out and brushes Dean's new feathers. Even with the skim of repulsive gunk coating them, the feathers are gorgeous, emerald and soft. Dean leaks a faint sound into a sudden silence that envelops them, and the heat in Castiel's gut explodes into urgency.

"Dean," he snarls, throwing himself onto Dean's back, flattening Dean to the ground. Dean grunts as he slams down and his wings flare. His ass ruts up to meet Castiel's crotch, to rub against Castiel's sudden, inappropriate, glorious erection.

A glimmer of reason pierces Castiel's fervency. "...something..." Damn, it's hard to think. Dean has wings, he's naked, he smells like relief and satisfaction and need, and Castiel has never -  _ n.e.v.e.r _ \- wanted him more. "...something is..."

"...wrong," Dean finishes hoarsely. "Fucking  _ wings _ , Cas!"

"I know...they're...they're so..." Castiel straddles Dean's ass, grabs the bony ridges of the wings, and massages down their length. Dean groans, bucks up against him, wings flaring to welcome, encourage, beg for Castiel's touch. The smell of oil, pure, fresh, unadulterated, and reeking of  _ mate _ sweeps away Castiel's reservations as a gust of wind ebbs and swirls around them, coating the blood on Dean's wings with motes of yellow dust.

With a snarl, Castiel smothers Dean's body with his own, lying between Dean's new wings, dick lined up against Dean's ass. His hands work between them, threading among Dean's feathers, smearing away filth. His lips find Dean's scent point, find the mating scar he'd made when they were joined, and he sucks and nips and licks. Despite Dean's recent distress, every sound he makes is erotic, every movement is enticing, every splay of his wings betrays desperation. Castiel's wings mirror those movements, oil soaking the back of his shirt as Dean's oil slicked the front of it.

Coherent thoughts are few and far between, disconnected concepts floating through Castiel's head -  _ Dean  _ and  _ wings  _ and  _ need  _ and  _ fuck  _ and  _ Dean  _ and  _ Dean  _ and  _ WINGS  _ and  _ DeanDeanDeanDeanDean  _ and... "Mine," he snarls.

Dean thrashes beneath him, throwing off his weight, gets his knees under himself, hoists his shapely behind...and presents. Every gesture, every suggestion, every flap is submissive, and Dean's scent has shifted from fear to urgent, unquenched, unquenchable arousal.

There are too many clothes between them.

Castiel's grace flares and his clothing incinerates.

His hands are back on Dean's wings, his grace flares again, and the grossness evaporates in a waft of smoke and stench and flowers. New-dried, the pinions shift in the wind. Lining himself up behind Dean, cock against Dean's crack, Castiel sets his hands on the small of Dean's back, the perfect curve of his lower spine, and slides them up. Twisting himself awkwardly, he lays his lips where his hands just were and follows the trail of his touch with hot, wet kisses. 

Dean is  _ delicious _ , scent and sound and taste, and his perfection only burgeons as Castiel's hands find the oil glands at the base of Dean's wings and he rubs. Massaging with his thumbs, he works the oil free, coating his fingers, his palms, reaching the glands with his lips and sucking until his mouth is coated. The floral scent finally, mercifully fades, allowing Castiel to focus solely on Dean, intoxicating and dizzying beneath him.

Licks and nuzzles work more oil free as he slowly, tenderly begins to work the slick through Dean's new feathers. Whimpers and choked back sobs and gasps provide a musical accompaniment to Castiel's meticulous efforts, and he rubs his dick over Dean's crack in tempo. They're an orchestra working in tandem, a symphony played on their bodies - the finest, most refined instruments in creation.

"In me," Dean gasps, and it's so obvious that Castiel can't conceive why he hasn't already slid within that welcoming heat. He leans back, hastened by the distressed cry Dean makes in his absence, coats his erection in Dean's oil, and embraces Dean anew, lips back on Dean's glands, hands back amidst his feathers, dick sliding easily, effortlessly, smoothly into Dean's body.

Castiel expects the pressure and heat within him to ease as they join, but instead a new urgency flares. His heart races. His breath comes desperate and over quick. Black speckles dance across his vision. Dean is talking - chanting - begging - pleading - but the words are meaningless. Castiel feels like the individual atoms of his vessel are about to dissipate in different directions, swirl away in the tornado of the rising winds. His hips draw back, his lips suck hard, his fingers dig into wing flesh, Dean breaks off mid-word, and Castiel let's go.

He can't say how long he fucks into Dean, how deeply he penetrates him, how much of Dean's oil Castiel drinks down like finest ambrosia, nectar of the Gods. Dean is his mate, his toy,  his angel,  _ his _ , and Castiel  _ will  _ possess him.

Every thrust is punctuated by a cry, in Castiel's head, maybe aloud, he can't tell any longer.  _  Need, need, need, need, need _ . He's burning up, aflare with desperation, a bonfire of lust, his knot swelling and pulling from Dean's ass with each withdrawl, tearing back in with each thrust. 

_ Need _ .

Thrust.

_ Need _ .

Thrust.

_ Need _ .

Thrust.

_ Need. Need. Need. Need. Nee- _

His knot catches.

Frantic ecstasy tears through him. His fingers scramble, pulling feathers free. His mouth sucks Dean in - he needs more, needs Dean around him, surrounding him, within him - and so far from dulling his urgency, climax hones it.

Dean sobs, rocking back against him, wings flapping so hard that the wind howls - or maybe that's Dean howling - or maybe that's Castiel howling. Come spills from him like disease being leeched from a wound, but there's more, always more, so much more. Tears smear over his cheeks, coat Dean's back, frustration and futility and desire given form. Coming should have alleviated his desire, should have sated them both, and instead Castiel needs to stop, can't stop, and Dean's trembling beneath him suggests he is as frantic.

Numb fingers fumble around Dean's body, find his cock, find Dean's hand already wrapped around his length. Their fingers interweave and stroke, stroke, stroke, and if Dean's words are still so much meaningless, wind-swept noise, his urgency is palpable. Drained physically, mentally, but not sexually, Castiel's knot, shrunken post-release, slips from Dean's oil- and come-slick hole, still spitting globs of sticky white onto Dean's ass cheeks, lower back and thighs.

Scrambling at air, Castiel tries to figure out how to cure the pit of emptiness within him yet demanding more lust, more oil, more sex, more ecstasy, more Dean. His chest heaves with his panting breaths, his vision a blur of emerald, his pulse like a stampede through his veins. He releases Dean's dick, pulls his oily lips from Dean's glands, rocks back on his heels in confusion...and Dean is on him, biting, pushing, snarling like an animal. The world goes black as Castiel hits the ground, wings pinned spread to his sides, legs falling limply to either side as Dean mounts him. Castiel's sight clears to a vision of Dean, drenched in sweat, thighs dripping with come, dick unhealthily swollen and red, wings spread in a gesture of dominance and ownership, and something in Castiel's head clicks into place. For the first time in unknown minutes, he feels a glimmer of peace.

_ This  _ is he what he needs, he realizes as Dean's cock thrusts abruptly, roughly, into his hole.

Dean smothers him, fills him, consumes him, bites at him, caresses him, a divine mirror of Castiel's own previous dominance.

Dean's hands slide to Castiel's back, finds the base of his wings and massages and kneads them hard. Sensation bombards Castiel, bliss a tide washing him away, washing him apart, washing him and Dean together. Dean pounds mindlessly into him, expression slack, face filthy with tears and spit and dirt and blood and traces of white come though Castiel can't fathom how that got there.

Cock, hard and solid, grounding and elating, stretches him open, spears him, and Castiel arches into every thrust, urges Dean on, begs for more. He can take it, can take everything Dean has to offer and still need more.

With a final squeeze, Dean releases Castiel's oil glands and rocks back. Castiel misses his weight until Dean seizes his ankles, hoists Castiel's legs, repositions them both, thrusts in harder, rougher, deeper, and thickness at the base of Dean's cock forces into his body.

Dean has a knot.

Well.

That's new.

The thought barely processes before Dean is caught within him, filling him, stuffing him, arching away and coming with a scream as though orgasm is being torn from him body and soul. The slosh of come within Castiel is tangible, profound, utterly satisfying, and tears stream unbidden from Castiel's eyes.

He feels so good...so good...so so so so good...

Dean collapses over him, feathers teasing and tickling at Castiel's sides, sobbing and squirming and still thrusting though they're tied together.

As abruptly as it came, the fever possessing him, possessing them both, passes.

The wind fades.

Castiel's senses clear.

"What..." Dean coughs, splattering Castiel's chest with spittle, and croaks, "What the fuck was that?"

"A sex spell...I think?" Castiel offers. He's not sure - he'll need to investigate the garden once more, ideally while wearing a gas mask - but it seems the only explanation.

"When..." Dean coughs again and swallows. "When can we do it again?"

Helpless, pinned, knotted, besotted, pleasured, blissfully delighted, Castiel throws his head back, knocks his skull against a root, and laughs until he cries. Dean shakes atop him, joining him in delight, and it's a long time before Castiel is finally coherent enough to gasp out, "Whenever you want, Dean. As often as you want."

It's hours before they manage to leave the garden.

Castiel tries to clean up the evidence - and resurrects their clothes - but Sam's judging look suggests they're not fooling anyway.

Nor does he seem to buy their explanation that the seedling they've got in a pot is just because Dean has discovered a sudden adoration of horticulture.

And they don't even attempt to explain the wings.

There are things Sam just. Really shouldn't know. And Sam is a wise enough man to know that he shouldn't ask.

Castiel is already planning a special greenhouse to contain the pollen until he and Dean are ready for round...4. Or 5.

Castiel lost count.

All he knows is...they're in for way more fun times to come. And come and come and come.

Best. Hunt. Ever.

~finis~

  
  
  



End file.
